


(your love was) sticky like honey

by Butterfly



Series: go on as three [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Corsetry, Edgeplay, Intercrural Sex, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Podfic Available, Polyamory, Power Exchange, Safeword Use, Sex Magic, Vaginal Fisting, mostly sex and feelings: a vaguely annoyed commentary by margo hanson, sex magic going a bit awry, still taking place in a vaguely s2-ish time period but deviated from canon around 1x07, zero plot content of any kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly/pseuds/Butterfly
Summary: This whole thing- this thing they have, with Quentin. It's changing her relationship with Eliot, too, in ways she couldn't have predicted. They've always been handsy, as friends go, but there's just- more now.





	(your love was) sticky like honey

**Author's Note:**

> Waves vaguely at the 'additional tags'. There's just a lot of porn here, y'all. Porn and feelings.
> 
> Title from "Honey" by Bonnie McKee.

Sweet holy fuck, but Margo loves the way Quentin stares at her.

She blows a kiss at him and he smiles back, dimpling and flushing. He sits like such a fucking weirdo, as always, feet curled up under him on the chair and his arms every which way.

“Less flirting, more undressing, Bambi,” Eliot says, with a dismissive wave of his hand, then gets back to carefully unwrapping their special order. “We can have fun with him once you've had a chance to do some modeling.”

“Spoilsport,” Margo says, with an elaborate pout, but she does as requested, keeping eye contact with Q as she slides out of her dress and tosses it at him.

He fumbles the catch and then folds the cloth with shaking hands, his fingers rubbing over the lace as his gaze catches on her bra. That's the next thing to go, and she throws it right at his face, laughing at his sharp little “Margo!”

All she has left on are her shoes and her little silk bikini cuts. She decides to leave them on for now – the height the shoes give her will help out Eliot and she has plans for the panties.

“Hair out of the way,” Eliot instructs, and she uses both hands to pile it up on top of her head.

This whole thing- this thing they have, with Quentin. It's changing her relationship with Eliot, too, in ways she couldn't have predicted. They've always been handsy, as friends go, but there's just- _more_ now. They aren't best friends who sometimes fuck the same person anymore, they're... she's not sure what the word is. El only likes pussy once in a blue moon, so it's never gonna be like it is with her and Quentin but- it's something.

She holds up her hair, and the movement lifts her tits, shows them off to Quentin, who bites down on his lip. Just to the left of him, there's a full-body mirror, and she can see herself, brazen and beautiful, and Eliot walking up behind her, and the light from the window catches on the fabric in his hands and makes the dark burgundy satin gleam.

Eliot wraps the corset around her waist and starts fastening the knobs of the busk in front, leaning over her shoulder to get a better view.

Big hands, but he's good with them.

“Yours will be a different color,” she tells Quentin, whose blush immediately deepens. The corset just barely cups the underside of her breasts and she does her best to keep her breathing even and slow, to make everything easier for Eliot. Her nipples are hard already, from being bare in the room and having Q's eyes on her. She aches to have his mouth on her too, but she can be patient. It won't be much longer. “But this looks good on me.”

“Everything looks good on you,” Quentin says, disarming and genuine. It's a fucking lie, because Quentin can't judge colors against skin tone to save his life, but the words also make something flutter deep in her stomach, and keeping Quentin really has been the best damn decision of her life. “Um, but- uh, yeah, you're really pretty in red.”

“Bet your ass I am,” she says.

Eliot finishes up the front, runs his hand over the embroidered fabric, then pulls away. He does the first run of lacing so that the corset will stay up, then says, with a soft hand to the center of her back, “Okay, Bambi, let me know if I make it too tight.”

Margo breathes out, finds her center, and lets herself feel each tug at her back, tightening the boning and the fabric around her torso, reshaping the curve of her waist. Quentin is fascinated, eyes big and hands nervous. In the mirror, she can see what he sees, the way the yanks make her tits jiggle, the shine of the satin, the strip of bare skin between the bottom of the corset and the top of her black silk panties.

She bites her lip, holds back a confession – she's never done anything exactly like this before, put herself on display in a way that made her feel this vulnerable. When she fucks, she's never the soft one. She can play-act at it, but that's always been just another layer of protection. It's not easy to keep up her armor around Quentin because he's never bothered with any around them, like he doesn't realize how fragile that makes him.

“There. That's enough,” she says to El, and she can _feel_ it when she talks, when she breathes. Not painful and not constricting, not exactly, but impossible to ignore. Eliot kisses her temple, meets her eyes in the mirror. He volunteered to play the voyeur tonight, but she checks in anyway, tilts her head in a silent invitation. He shakes his own head slightly, pats the slightly exaggerated curve of her waist, and draws away, settles himself in the armchair next to the mirror, angled with a view towards the bed. “Okay, Q, honey. Come over here. It's playtime.”

She spreads her legs slightly and releases her hair, letting it tumble down around her shoulders. Some of it brushes the tops of her breasts and, yeah, she looks like a wet dream pin-up in a porno magazine. God bless her amazing fucking genes and her exercise regimen and the art of corsetry. Quentin stumbles over to her, already looking desperate to touch anything she'll let him.

“Still wanna try out that spell?” Margo asks him. Quentin nods, shaky. “Then I'm gonna need your hands.”

He lifts them towards her, palms up, fingers slightly curled inward. He says the words softly, an offering just like his gesture. She wraps her hands around his wrists, tight, accepts his offer, and the power travels up through her veins, in her blood, an intimate head-rush, and she can feel the shape of him in her mind's eye, first his whole body, then narrowing down to just his dick. He's already starting to get hard and she shushes him, slows him down, softens him. Quentin's whole face goes slack and she wonders briefly how it feels from his end but, well, she doesn't _have_ to wonder, does she?

“Doing okay?” She strokes the inside of his wrists with her fingers.

“I'm- I'm- it's strange,” Quentin says. “I was- um, well. You know. And now I'm- but I'm still, uh. Turned on. It feels a little weird.”

“Bad weird?” she double-checks.

“New weird,” he says. “You- uh- you ever done this before?”

“It's the first time for both of us,” she says, and that seems to comfort him. “Just remember, let me know if it gets to be too much. I don't wanna make your dick explode.” Quentin huffs out a laugh.

She takes a step backwards, drawing Quentin with her to the bed. Lets go of his hands just before she reaches it and boosts herself up, sliding back on the sheets, letting her knees fall apart. She lets him stare for a good long time. She can feel his body yearning to send extra blood to his cock, make it swell and grow, ready to fuck her, and she uses her magical tether to settle him down. The 'cock ring' spell is the unofficial name for this little piece of cooperative magic, but it's a lot more than that. She can keep him as hard or soft as she wants, and he won't come until she's good and ready.

It's a heady amount of control. Margo has fucked some submissive men in the past, but never anyone who has handed himself over to her like this. She's gonna make sure he doesn't regret it.

“Clothes off,” she says, and he rushes to obey, almost tripping himself pulling his shirt over his head. He drops it all on the floor next to his feet, until he's naked from head to toe. She looks him over, slow and lingering, enjoying the flush of color on his face and chest. His nipples look rock-hard and she wonders if part of that is because his dick _can't_ get hard right now and the need has to redirect somewhere. And, fuck, she loves the look of it, swinging gently between his legs, flaccid and dangling and hers.

Quentin blushes harder when he sees where her eyes are and his hands dart towards his crotch before he forces them away again, so she can look as much as she wants.

Margo braces herself on her elbows, holds her legs apart as wide as she can, her sharp heels digging into the bed. She can still see herself in the mirror, partly, though some of the view is blocked by Q, and she's fucking obscene. There's a stifled attempt from Quentin's body to send another rush of arousal downward and it's getting easier and easier to defuse, to send that yearning back into the rest of his system.

He already looks a little glassy-eyed and they've barely started.

“Get down here and kiss my cunt,” she tells him. “No hands.”

Quentin crawls onto the bed, kisses her ankle just above the strap of her shoe. His hair falls forward, covers his face, but she can feel his breathing, unsteady and thready. His mouth traces a warm line up her leg, stubble rubbing against her skin. His cock wants so badly to stiffen. She doesn't let it and he whimpers against her thigh. He reaches the edge of the fabric, licks at the line between skin and silk. She's damp already, and he presses his mouth against her, one thin layer away. He sucks hard and she tilts her hips, lifts up and pushes back.

He licks at her desperately, rubs his nose into the silk, trying to press against her clit.

When she looks, all she can see is his hair, so she shifts herself to brace on one elbow, reaches forward to brush it back, so she can see the focused lines on his forehead, how tightly his eyes are closed, those long eyelashes fluttering, and the high, bright flush on his cheeks. She can't hold that position for long, sinks back down to both elbows, but she keeps that memory of his face in her mind. In the mirror, she can see the line of his back between her legs, muscles moving as he presses against her and sucks, the sharp dark lines of his tattoo, and the tight curve of his ass.

Her gaze shifts to the side and Eliot is leaning back languidly in the armchair, one hand cupped over the bulge in his pants, stroking gently and slowly, as he stares at Quentin's ass, too. He's so lovely in his Fillorian clothes, like he was always meant to be here, always meant to be king. In his blood, as Quentin had said, and he looks it.

Margo lets her head fall back between her shoulders, rolls her pelvis up against Quentin's mouth. He's being so good, kissing and licking and sucking her through the silk, and her thighs are starting to tremble as she gets close to an orgasm. “You're gonna make come so many times tonight, little Q.”

And, _Jesus_ , there's another burst of heat in his body at her words, and she has to gently tug it away from his cock, keeping him sweet and soft. He's so fucking hot for her and she hadn't known, not really, not how much. Now that she does know, she'll never forget.

She drowns in the feeling of his mouth against her cunt, his desire beating against her mind, until it all becomes too much and she bubbles over with pleasure, muscles tightening as she strains against him, pushes against him.

Collapses on the bed afterwards, and he follows her down, not sucking anymore, just softly licking her through the barrier of wet silk. He'll keep licking until she tells him to stop and that thought is- is too much, right now.

“Okay, baby. That's good. That was really good.” She buries her fingers in his hair as he leans his head against her thigh. She tugs until he turns his head up and looks at her. “How are you feeling?”

“Um. Kinda amazing?” It's a confession, and he delivers like one, hushed voice and shy eyes. His cheeks are so pink, his mouth red and slick. “I- my, uh. The way my dick usually feels when I'm turned on is- my whole body sorta feels that way instead?”

“Sounds like a winner.” She loops one of her legs over his back, just enjoying feeling more of his skin against hers. “And do you like the corset? You can touch if you want.”

His fingers hesitantly creep up onto the edge of the corset, tracing along the loops of embroidery. “I won't look as good. As you do. I don't think.”

“Very few would, cupcake,” she agrees archly. “But I do want to peg you while you're wearing one, even if you won't be as scorchingly hot as I am on a daily basis.”

“You are such an absurd person,” he tells her, not for the first time, so she just grins at him and nudges him with her knee. “I swear, half the time I can't believe you and Eliot are actual real people that I know in my actual real life because you are so fucking ridiculous and narcissistic. There are probably gods less vain than you two.”

“Yeah, well, you love us for it,” Margo teases, and Quentin's eyes soften and, oh, fuck, he's about to agree but, like, in a fucking sincere way and she _cannot_ handle that shit right now, so she adds, quickly, “Hey, so, about those orgasms you owe me. I'm due another one.” And his eyes are still so fucking tender, the asshole.

“You want me to kiss you again?” he asks and he would, if she asked him to. He would spend all night with his mouth pressed against her, making her come until she told him she was done.

“I want you to take this corset off me,” she says, holding an imperious hand out towards him so he can help her sit up again. “It's been a while since I've worn one and I'm feeling a little restricted.” She glances over at Eliot, feeling raw, and holds his gaze while Quentin slides along behind her to slowly untie the bow and loosen the ribbons at the back of the corset until she can reach down and start to unfasten the busk. “Enjoying the show?” She takes off the shoes, too, and slides down her soaked panties, tossing them to the floor.

“Promising opening act,” Eliot says, playing at relaxed and casual. Such a fucking liar, she can _see_ how his dick is pressing against his pants. “Definitely looking forward to seeing whether the rest can measure up. I'd certainly hate to think you used up your best ideas in the first round.” A challenge if she ever heard one.

“Oh, there's quite a line-up planned.” She raises an eyebrow back at Eliot, challenge fucking accepted. “Q, sweetheart, there's a jar in the nightstand. Massage oil. Grab it for me, okay?”

She has Q rub the oil into all the places the corset bit at her, all the marks left by how she'd wriggled against the bed while wearing it. He touches her with a light, reverent touch, like she really is the self-indulgent goddess he'd teased her about believing she was. There's a role-play thought for another day: Q the devoted worshipper to two competitive gods of sex and lust. When her skin is glistening and Quentin is just touching her for the sake of touching her, she presses a hand against his chest and has him back off.

Margo lies down on her back, diagonally across the bed, angled so that Eliot will get a good view of where she's gonna place Quentin. He'll want to see Q's face and dick, not her pussy. She orders Quentin to get her more pillows and gets herself arranged so that her shoulders and neck are supported and propped up slightly, until it all feels right for what she wants to do. Quentin had been baffled, at first, at how much planning she and Eliot put into sex, but he's come to appreciate their thoughtfulness, she thinks, and enjoy their showmanship.

“Straddle my hips,” she tells him, and he does, eagerly, his lovely little cock laying gently on her belly. “So, honey, we know you don't like receiving pain, but I do like taking it sometimes, so let's find out if you're a giver.”

“You want me to hurt you,” Quentin says, and he sounds so worried over it, poor thing, face drawing up in uncertain lines.

“I want to use your body to give myself something I enjoy,” she corrects, and that gets a better reaction, a tiny buzz of pleasure zinging towards his dick. Generously, she lets him keep it, lets his dick plump out the smallest bit. She touches his leg, then strokes her hand up her own body, caressing her left breast, teasing the nipple with her index finger until it's hard and tight. “You're gonna slap me. That's your target.” She moves her fingers out of the way, keeping her palm cupped around her breast to hold it up.

“Um- I don't want to hit you- ah- too hard. Should I- is there a-”

“Q. Sweetling. I can _guarantee_ you won't hit hard enough the first few times.” That earns her a bit of a mulish, stubborn look, and she can see him arguing the point in his own head. “Don't overthink it. Sex is fucking weird, baby. Just go with it and then we'll know if you like it or not.”

His hand flexes and, glory, he does have strong, capable hands. This is gonna be real good, if he can work himself up to actually doing it properly.

The first slap is so light that it's almost an insult to even call it one. She raises her eyebrow, her point made. He does a little better the second time, palm stinging against her skin, sending a thrill down her body. “Harder,” she tells him. And, _yeah_ , there's the sharp sting she wants, centered on her pebbled nipple but arrowing down towards her pussy. “Mmm, that's better. Now, go ahead and touch me again, soft and gentle, right around where you hit me.”

His fingers brush against her nipple, circle it softly, that muscular, talented magician's hand of his spreading the feeling out into her whole breast. She sighs and arches into his fingers, satisfied and hungry at the same time.

“Okay. Again, but harder.”

This smack reverberates through her body, makes her back straighten with shock.

She moans in the back of her throat. “Oh, fuck, perfect. Now, soothe it out again, baby, like before.”

Quentin makes a little questioning sound, a curious huff of breath. Margo relaxes into the firm touch of his hand on her breast and waves a distracted hand at Eliot, hoping he'll take the hint and explain so Margo can just enjoy herself.

“You're tricking her body into thinking the pain won't come back, so that it's a surprise the next time,” Eliot says, and his voice is slightly strangled, which makes her smile.

“Have you and Margo ever-”

“Ha, no, we haven't.” Eliot's tone is drier now. “But I've spanked enough guys to see the principle in action. Were you ever spanked?”

“No,” Quentin says, his fingers slowing on her skin. “Um. My mom hit me once when she was really pissed off, but then she cried afterwards, so. That never happened again.”

“Oh, honey. Not the right time to talk about your mom,” Margo says, and there's definitely something in his voice that she doesn't like, too, and she has enough bad mom memories of her own. “Let's table that for now. Come on, baby, get back to work.”

She makes him slap her until her whole breast is red and the ache doesn't fade even after he pets and fondles her gently and rubs more of the warming, soothing massage oil into her skin. Then she pulls her hand away, lets her breast softly fall to the side, props up her right one instead and makes him start over. He gets her there a lot faster this time, having figured out how hard she wants him to smack her, how deeply she wants his fingers to press into her breast afterwards.

“Mmm, okay, scoot up a little, get on your knees,” she tells him, patting her chest just under her breastbone. Once he's in place, she reaches down and strokes a single finger along his dick, letting him fill up as she goes. His eyes go wide and he sways, slapping a hand against the headboard to steady himself. His cock pops up against his belly, then droops again, heavy.

“ _Christ_ , Margo.” His voice is hoarse. “Zero to fucking sixty, holy shit.”

She smirks up at him, taps his dick on the head. “Yeah, well, I need this for what happens next.”

Margo presses her tits together, arches her back as much as she can with him on top of her, an open invitation. He leaves one hand braced against the headboard and takes his dick in hand with the other, his fingers still slick enough with the oil to make it shine in the light when he gives it a few quick pumps. He guides his dick in between her breasts, sends a cautious look her way. She nods, and he slides forward.

She's swollen and sensitive, can feel every inch of his cock against her skin. His hips thrust forward, nervous and unsteady at first, but he finds a rhythm. She has him go until his face is pink with exertion and his breathing has turned into quick, erratic panting. She releases her breasts, puts her hands on his waist, and he stills at her touch with an unsteady moan.

“How are you doing, little Q?” She can feel how desperately he wants to come, the need beating at the back of her mind. She strokes over the sensation with soft gentle fingers in her head, pressing tenderly against his aching desire.

“Um. I'm. I'm- uh. Good. I wanna. Wanna-” He breathes it out a few beats. “Wanna make you happy. Am I making you happy?”

“I am so happy right now,” she tells him and his hips twitch, his dick spitting out precome onto her skin. “How about you sit back and relax a little, sweetheart?” He rests in the cradle of her hips again, flushed and _painfully_ hard.

She considers him for a long moment, studies his body – on edge, needy and greedy – and the place where her mind touches his and owns his cock, at least for now. Two votes for hurrying to the finish line, but his eyes disagree. His body wants to come, but his face is open and attentive, ready to leap to obey her next whim.

“I want your hands on my tits,” she says. “Twist my nipples and pinch them. I'll let you know if you do it too hard.”

So he ignores his dick, slides his hands up her body and touches her just like she asked. Strong fingers pluck at her nipples, sending echoes down to make her buck up. He twists, and it's a lovely, sharp pain that makes her gasp. He hesitates, but when she doesn't say anything, he does it again, harder, then he pinches her and she thinks he might actually be leaving a bruise. Perfect, perfect, _perfect_. He is so perfect and she is never letting him go.

Margo leans her head back against the pillow and breathes into the pain, squirming under him. Fuck, she's dripping so bad there's already a wet spot on the bed.

“That's.. that's enough. You can stop now.” And she keeps breathing for a while longer after he pulls away, stares up at the ceiling without really seeing it. Her tits are going to be so fucking tender in the morning. Worth it. She blinks the tears from her eyes and says, “Ki- kiss it better. Gentle this time.”

He leans down and his mouth is a warm benediction, soft over her burning skin. She reaches up and strokes her hands through his hair, presses him against her body. He sucks a little, but delicately, and he brushes feather-light kisses where she aches the worst, licks sweetly at the streaks his dick left on her skin when he was fucking her breasts.

She pets at his hair, says, “You don't get to be inside me. Not today.” There's a tiny broken whimper against her skin, but he nods. “I do want your dick on my pussy. You're going to slide against my clit. Make me come.” She tugs at his hair so that she can look at his face. He's riding close to the edge, but she thinks he can take more. “You think you can do that?”

“Yeah.” He turns his face, licks her wrist. “Yeah, I wanna do that.”

Quentin slots himself between her thighs, his hands shaky on his dick as he carefully presses it between the folds of her cunt. He rocks his hips, and the head of his dick presses right up against her clit and, _fuck_ , yes. This won't take long at all. She lifts her arm up so that she can brace one hand against the headboard, rolls into his movements, meets his rhythm. He presses more kisses against her breasts as he thrusts, holding himself up on his elbows. His hair's fallen down again, sweaty against his forehead. He rocks like he really is fucking into her, like he's inside her, but rubs against her clit with each push of his hips.

Margo's body clenches down tight on nothing as she comes, arching her back, toes curling.

She presses a hand to Quentin's back and he stops moving, shivering in place. She's about to ask when he says, desperate-

“I need- Margo, _Margo_ , I don't think I can- I need-”

She touches his face and he turns towards her, plant to the sun, kissing her fingers.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, gentle. “How about you get up here again and I let you come on my tits?”

He almost face-plants into her chest as he scrambles up, takes his dick in hand – and fuck, it's red and swollen and wet from being pressed against her pussy – and gives her a wide-eyed look, waiting on her signal. She nods, and he starts to jerk off, rough and fast. Margo carefully unties the mental knot she'd set aside when the spell was first cast, unloops her control over Quentin's cock and-

And he comes the second she lets go, uncontrolled spatters of semen landing everywhere on her chest, her stomach, her face. Quentin starts to slump down backwards and she brings up her knees, giving him a place to lean.

As soon he finishes coming, he yanks his hand away like his dick is on fire. He must be so fucking sensitive and part of her wants to touch, to push a little more, but they've pushed hard enough for one day, she thinks.

“My messy boy,” she says, fondly, and he gives her an exhausted smile. “You need to spend some time recovering before we debrief, baby?” He nods, his weight listing back onto her legs.

Margo glances over at Eliot, who is wiping his hand off onto a handkerchief and doing his pants back up. “So, El, which part was your favorite?” she asks him. Quentin doesn't turn to look, but his eyes do shift slightly in El's direction.

“Oh, I'm a simple man,” Eliot says, in blatant contradiction to his entire existence. “I liked watching Q worship your tits while trying to pretend his dick wasn't hard enough to hammer nails. That was _amazing_.”

Quentin raises a hand and flips Eliot off. Margo laughs.

Eliot pushes himself to his feet, goes off in the direction of the bathroom. She can hear the sound of water, El washing his hand off, probably, but then he comes out and he's holding a glass of water. Oh, yeah. Good idea.

Quentin gulps the water down greedily, his throat unsteady as he swallows.

Eliot sits down next to him on the bed, facing Margo, and wraps his arm around Quentin's shoulders. He reaches down with his other hand and, so so lightly, touches Q's cock. Quentin hisses and Eliot pulls away. “Sore?”

“I feel like a bomb went off in my dick,” Quentin says, which is definitely an answer of a kind.

“Regrets?” Eliot pets Quentin's stomach.

“Fuck no,” Quentin sets the glass down on the bed. It falls over immediately, spilling the last drops on the sheets. “That was- that was- yeah. You guys can do _that_ again anytime you want. A plus, gold medal, five-fucking-star review. I only- um.”

“You what?” Margo asks. She's a little thirsty, too, but comfortable enough with Q perched on her hips that she doesn't want to move.

“I wish I could've kept it going longer,” Quentin says. “I was just- everything in my body felt so- so tight, so wound-up. And I couldn't release it, it couldn't _go_ anywhere. I didn't have any power over it.”

“You really do like it when other people are in charge of you,” Eliot muses. And it's not a new thought, for either of them, but it's interesting how far it can be pushed. If things keep going like this, Q really will need a safeword in addition to 'no', probably soon. “Now that we've been doing this a while, have any more thoughts on why?”

“Um.” Quentin pauses, his face working, then it clears up as he seems to settle on something. “Sometimes, I- I feel like... like my brain is an- an alien piloting a broken-down spaceship built by another species with completely incompatible body parts. And it's- it's nice to let someone I trust more than myself do the driving.” He frowns, reaches down to touch one of the marks he left on her breast. “Does it hurt, still?”

“Good pain, baby Q,” she reassures him. “You did exactly what I wanted.”

“Okay,” he says, thoughtfully, pets at her gently, eyes warm. “You want me to clean you up?”

“Yeah, honey, put your mouth back on me,” she says and he gives her a sly smile, like he's gotten one over on her. He licks up the streaks of come, then he kisses down her stomach, sucks at her clit, gives her another orgasm, softer this time. Sweet.

Eliot strokes over Quentin's skin as he works, pets his shoulders, brushes his knuckles over Q's back and the curve of his ass. Quentin collapses between her legs when he's done, pillowing his face on her belly. It gives her a thought.

“Hey, El, you think you could go again?” she asks. Eliot looks at her consideringly.

“Probably. What are you thinking, Bambi?”

“It's just that our little Q is in an _awfully_ compromising position,” she says, innocent as a lamb. “I mean, goodness, anyone could, I don't know, stick their dick between his thighs. Wink-wink.”

“You would make such a terrible spy,” Quentin tells her, patting her hip affectionately. “And El can 'stick his dick between my thighs', as long as I get to suck it first. And as long as I don't have to move. I don't wanna move for, like, a century.”

“You and your fucking oral fixation.” She tucks his hair back behind his ear. If it gets much longer, she thinks she'll ask him if she can try braiding it. “El, you wanna fuck Q's thighs after he blows you a while?”

“Well, you don't have to twist my arm,” Eliot says, slow and lazy. He leans over and kisses her throat while he unbuttons his pants again, holds his dick down against her stomach so that Q can lick at it without needing to get up. Eliot feels ridiculously big, after having Quentin against her for so long, and Q's tongue flicks against her skin as he presses sloppy kisses to the head of El's dick.

It's more intimate than she'd been expecting, when she'd first made the suggestion. She wraps her arm around Eliot's shoulders, presses her mouth against the top of his head as he sucks another kiss into her skin.

They've been doing this thing for about a month now, if she measures from that first drunken, fuzzy night. It's been a long time she was exclusive with anyone for more than a couple of weeks at a time. Most people just aren't worth the effort. Quentin is- he's a _lot_ of fucking effort, honestly, but somehow, she doesn't mind so much. She strokes his forehead, watches his mouth stretch around El's dick. She doesn't think she'll get tired of that, ever. It's a strange thought, unfamiliar, but she feels so warm and pleased and blurry, she just lets it settle to the back of her mind.

She's not sure how long Q sucks El, but eventually Eliot pulls away from her, covers Quentin's body with his, guides his dick down. She hears him say, quietly, “Press your legs together, sweetheart, yeah, like that,” and his hips move, steady, unhurried. She can feel El's rhythm in how Quentin rocks against her, and Q turns his face into her stomach, kisses her.

Eliot reaches up, wraps one of his arms around her leg and braces himself against her as he thrusts, his mouth at the back of Q's neck. She and Quentin never ended the cooperative spell, so she can still feel the tug of his arousal at the back of her mind, his dick stirring as Eliot's slides against him, between his legs. She doesn't try to do anything to it, just lets the sensation float next to her own contentment.

“Silver and blue,” Margo says dreamily. She thinks she says. Maybe it's still in her head. “Those are the colors we decided on for your corset, little Q. Dark blue fabric, with silver embroidery that matches your crown. Maybe some kohl around your eyes, a smudge of color on your mouth. Nothing too fancy. You'll like wearing it, honey, I promise.” She presses her fingers to his lips, and he opens up for her. Eliot's hand tightens on her leg as he starts to move faster. Quentin's dick stiffens from the friction and she feels it second-hand, Q sucking on her fingers as El winds him back up. “And I'll fuck you, and then El will fuck you.”

She pulls her fingers back out, slides her hand down to touch herself as Quentin pants against her belly. Not with any real purpose – she doesn't think she'll be able to come again – but just to do something with the echo of Q's desire that's bouncing around in her head.

“Margo?” Quentin's voice is low, husky. She makes a wordless little sound, letting him know she's listening. “When El fucks me the first time, I wanna be in you. Can we do it that way?”

It sharpens her low-level haze of arousal, to think about Quentin thinking about them fucking him. She moves her fingers with more purpose, slipping them inside, arching her hips against his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, we can swing that.”

One of his hands, with his lovely long fingers, has crept up to join hers, but he remembers what she said earlier. He rubs at the top of her mound, presses his knuckles against her clit, but he doesn't try to press inside her. Not tonight, she'd told him. He kisses the tangle of hair at the top of her cunt, asks, “Make me last longer? Until El's done?”

She focuses and she can feel how Q's about to slip over into a helpless orgasm, chokes it back with a thought. His breath stutters against her stomach. She doesn't knot it up this time, keeps it in the center of her mind and strokes at it. Until El's done, so she studies Eliot's face as much as she can. El kisses the center of Q's tattoo, his shoulders, the back of his neck. He's moving more quickly now, but still taking his time.

“He's already come once. It might be a while,” she warns Quentin, and he makes a happy grunting sound that makes her want to laugh. She doesn't, thinks maybe it would come too close to the bright red line of 'laughing at Q during sex' and tripping his insecurity switches, but she does move her wet fingers up to tangle with his, fond and comforting. She guides his hand down, says warmly, generously, “You can be inside now.”

Her hips arch as he presses two fingers in as deep as he can and then he's- he's matching rhythm with El's thrusts between his thighs, and he's kissing her clit, open-mouthed and messy. She takes away her own hand, puts her pleasure into Q's control, the way she's controlling his, and sinks her fingers into Eliot's curls. He's still wearing his crown, and the uneven stones rub harshly against her wrist as he moves. The sting grounds her, accentuates the bliss of Q's fingers buried inside her pussy. She relaxes, lets her boys carry her along as they chase their own needs.

Quentin presses another finger into her, eager, stroking desperately for the place inside her that will make her buck into his hand. He's getting better at finding it and it doesn't take him long this time. She moans and he would come, right now, if he could, just from the sound of her voice.

“Fuck, El, go faster,” she urges, her pulse thrumming against Quentin's hand. “Q's ready to pop.”

“Patience is a virtue, Bambi,” El says, twinkling eyes meeting hers. He smiles, happy and teasing, leans back down and nuzzles against Quentin's hair. “Coldwater has a mouth. He'll let us know if he can't take any more.” It's the mildest of rebukes – don't blame her own longing to rush on Quentin. She takes the point.

Takes another of Quentin's fingers, too, as he strokes into her, and the stretch is so _easy_ , she's come so many times already tonight, and she finds herself saying, “Thumb, too. All of it,” because there's suddenly nothing she wants more in the world than Q's lovely, talented hand wrist-deep inside her.

He doesn't ask her if she's sure, but he sucks lightly on her clit, pushes the top of his palm against her, assessing the give. Concentrating on her pushes his own aching need away from him, his itch to come lessening as he focuses. He slides his hand back out, tucks his thumb up against the rest of his fingers, and bears gently down against her.

It's a stretch, it makes her ache, and she tightens her grip on Eliot's hair, huffs a heavy breath through parted lips. She twists her hips, pushes against Q's hand, and there's a sharp twinge of pain as the widest part slips inside. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It hurts, but it hurts _good_ , and she says, breathless, “There's my sweet boy. Stay right there, honey. Right there.” Dizzily, she realizes she hasn't quite thought about the process of getting Q's hand out again. But that's a problem for later-Margo, not for now-Margo.

Now-Margo is fucking thrilled.

“I haven't done this before,” she tells Quentin, and even shifting her hips the smallest bit is such a big feeling. And it feels important to say, “I love your hands so much.”

“My hands are- are pretty fond of you, too,” Quentin says, like the fucking nerd that he is. “Jesus, Margo. It feels so tight. You're okay?”

“Fantastic,” she says. She kinda feels like she just downed a whole bottle of Jack, but in the best way. “Twist your hand?” He does and it's- fuck. She shivers, and it feels like every muscle in her body contracts in response. “Okay. Okay. Wait a while before doing that again.”

Eliot's rhythm hasn't even paused, the selfish bastard, while she's in the middle of a fucking sexual epiphany over here. She tugs viciously at his hair, getting his attention – he slows down, glances at her, still amused as fuck. Asshole.

“Q's hand is inside me,” she tells him. “The whole thing. God, El, it feels fucking huge.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Eliot asks, punctuates his words with a languid roll of his hips. “You're the one who had him put it there. This kinda feels like a you-thing, Bambi, not an us-thing.”

“Everything about Q is an us-thing, you dick,” she says. She thinks she can feel Q's pulse thundering against her skin. She adds, “Tell him how nice his hands are. Tell him I- tell him-” She squeezes her thighs around them. “Fuck, tell him he's the best fucking sex of my life. Tell him that.”

Eliot doesn't say any of those things, because Eliot is too busy silently laughing at her. She feels Q's mouth against her thigh, looks down against her better judgement. Fuck, she can see his hand disappearing inside her, can see the stretch of her skin around his wrist. His smile is warm and pleased. She's fucked prettier guys, probably, but she can't remember now what any of them looked like.

“You gonna make me come with your hand inside me?” she asks him. “I've got- got pretty strong muscles. Might break your wrist.”

“I'll take my chances,” he says. He turns his hand, slightly, and her breath catches. _Fuck_. “Best sex of your life, huh?”

“Well, you know. I grade on a curve. It doesn't mean as much as you think,” she says, trying to sound casual, but he flexes his fingers inside her and her voice breaks. Fucking magicians and their strong fucking hands. She double-checks her grip on Q's orgasm, locks it down harder so it can't slip away even if he distracts her again. “How are you- how are you doing-” she gropes for an endearment she hasn't used before, wants him to laugh, “-lemondrop?” He doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle at the edges. “Still good to wait until El comes?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, easy as anything. “Getting used to the feeling, I guess. Kinda feel like I could do it all night.” She has to close her eyes at that, throb around his wrist. Jesus, fuck. All night. “Or you could make me soft again,” Quentin adds, words slow and thoughtful, like he thinks he's inventing orgasm denial on the spot. “Not let me come at all, even after El does.”

“You want that, baby?” she asks, and she pets at that secret place in her head. There's a long silence, and she peeks out at him, watches his face as he turns the thought over and over, indecisive.

“I want to make you and Eliot happy,” he says, and pauses. “I want- yeah. I want to only think about making you and El happy. I don't wanna- don't wanna think about me.”

So she wraps a thick cloth over his hunger in the back of her mind, smothers it. The sharp edge of need just- just drains out of his face as his dick softens, his muscles loosen, he relaxes under Eliot's gentle thrusts. “Better?” she asks, feeling infinitely tender. “Not worrying about satisfying your dick anymore?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Better.”

He twists his hand inside her, rocks back against Eliot, mouths at her thigh. It's slow, and easy, and peaceful. She slides her eyes shut again, lets her hand fall down out of Eliot's hair, tilts her hips toward Quentin. She tightens that cloth around Quentin's lust, doesn't let a single bit of the buzzing arousal in his body anywhere near his cock. She drifts on the lapping waves of her own desire, centered around Quentin's fingers, his hand, his wrist. Like floating in an underground lake, warm and safe.

Later, she's not sure how long, probably forever, she hears the soft sweet sounds of Eliot gasping out Q's name as he comes.

She feels- she feels a curious finger trace the rim where Quentin's wrist stretches her wide. Her eyelids flutter open, and Eliot looks interested but detached. A scientist examining a specimen. The thought makes her giggle, and her stomach contracts, and she feels Q's hand all over again, like he's just put it in.

“You are so fucking high right now, Bambi,” Eliot says, slightly amused. “Did you actually manage to roofie _yourself_ on sex hormones? That's a neat trick. Are you feeling ready to come down?”

It's far too many questions and she wrinkles her nose as she considers them.

“I think she might be feeling mine, too,” Quentin says. “Because of the spell. I think she did something different this last time and now there's- there's like... it's like there's a feedback loop in her brain.”

“God, you are such a nerd,” she tells Quentin, very seriously. “How did I fall in love with such a fucking nerd? I used to be cool. Tell him how cool I was, El.”

“You are gonna regret this so much when you sober up,” Eliot says instead, rubbing a soothing hand over her knee. “Little Miss Feelings Allergy spilling her heart all over the place. You should- uh, you should probably let go of the spell, honey, but we need to get Q's hand out of you first. I have a feeling it's gonna be a lot harder when you're not feeling buzzed.”

She grumbles at them, but does her best to follow their directions on relaxing and pushing. Eliot is, apparently, watching a video on his phone about patterned breathing for women giving birth, which is _hilarious_ , she tells him, but she breathes like he tells her to anyway, and eventually Quentin's hand slides out and she feels-

God. So empty.

Margo tries to clench down and there's nothing there to squeeze.

She whines, pleadingly, and when she feels something slide back inside – smaller than before but better than nothing – she presses her thighs tight around Q's body so that he can't pull away again. She feels herself being propped up, her back resting against a familiar chest, and Eliot's voice in her ear. “Okay, he'll keep the fingers in for now. Can you let go of the spell, Bambi? I can help you with the tuts, if you aren't feeling steady enough.”

“Q doesn't want to come,” she says, with a fair degree of confidence. “I need to make sure he can't. We have a _responsibility_ , El. We gotta give Q what he needs.”

He pets her hair, says gently, “Harvest, sweetheart. You need to break the scene, okay? Harvest.”

She blinks, latching onto Eliot's safeword. “We're done?”

“We're done,” he says, with finality. “It's time for aftercare. We need to cuddle Quentin until he falls asleep.” That makes sense. That's what comes afterwards.

“Oh. Okay.” She reaches down and pets Q's hair, lifts up her hands. Concentrates on the tuts to end the cock ring spell.

It hits her like a mack truck and she sways in place as the spell falls away.

“Shit,” she says, with feeling. Quentin is about to move his hand and she flails down, grabs him by the wrist. “Not- not yet, honey. Holy shit. Fuck.” Her breasts hurt, but that much she was expecting. Her entire vagina, though, feels sore and wrecked, and she is gonna feel that shit for _days_.

Oh, shit.

Shit.

She told Q she loved him.

Motherfucking shitballs roasting on a garbage fire.

“Let me crawl in a hole and die,” she mutters, not able to look Quentin in the face. They've been fucking for a _month_ and she told him she loved him. This is the actual worst timeline. “Never look at me again. Oh, fuck.” He shifts and she adds, murderously, “Don't you _dare_ move your fingers yet. My pussy wants to _kill me_ , Coldwater, but it'll be worse if you take your hand away, so don't you dare.”

“If it helps,” Eliot says, his tone light. “I'm also in love with him.”

It doesn't, and she tells him so, in great detail.

“Does that mean you never want him to fist you again?” Eliot asks, after her words finally run out. Quentin's fingers are still inside her, and he hasn't said a thing this whole time, which is kinda concerning, but she's not sure how to deal with it, so she's been trying to ignore it.

She sighs heavily. Dares to glance down at Quentin, who is watching her, patiently, so that's one worry taken care of. She wonders how his dick is feeling, tries to poke at that place in her brain and feels vaguely disappointed when she can't feel it. “Of course, it doesn't mean I don't want him to fist me again,” she says. “It felt fucking spectacular, El. It was like regular sex on steroids. But, you know, I probably should wait, like. Six months or something. Or learn better stretching exercises.” She squeezes a little, around Quentin's fingers, to see how much it hurts and- yeah.

It really fucking hurts.

“I love you guys, too,” Quentin says, and he looks down at his fingers. At her cunt. “I'm in love with you. Too. Since we're talking about things like that. Now.”

“I despise you both with all my heart,” Margo says. Weakly. She strokes Q's wrist. “Ugh. I can't believe I'm in love with my fucking _boyfriend_ like some naive high-schooler who just gave her first BJ. Jesus. What's next? Are we gonna go to fucking prom together or some shit like that?”

Quentin, heartless monster that he is, laughs at her. Kisses her thigh. She glares at him. Eliot brushes his knuckles down her side, settles a hand on her waist. Reluctantly, she leans back against him. Nothing's actually ripped or broken, she can tell that much. Nothing except her pride, which is ragged and torn. Probably unsalvageable.

“You can take your fingers out now,” she says, and shivers at the slow slide of them on her skin as he tugs them away. She's still so fucking sensitive.

“How about we run you a warm bath?” Eliot suggests, caressing her hip. “Does that sound like something you'd want?”

“Mmm, yeah,” she agrees, and Quentin presses another kiss against her leg, then gets up and pads off on quiet feet towards the bathroom. It feels so strange and backwards, to have Q running aftercare on her. Once he's gone, she asks, softly, “What the fuck did we get ourselves into, El?”

“Having regrets?” He kisses her cheek.

“Yes. _No_. I don't know.” She shakes her head, stares off in the direction Q went, wanting him back already. She blames it on the lingering effects of the spell. “It's too late now, isn't it?”

“I think...” and Eliot hesitates. “Bambi, I think it was too late after that first morning. We caught him, but he caught us, too.” His hand slips under her thighs, the other one bracing her back. “Ready to be lifted up, sweetheart?”

“Ugh, I guess,” she says. Then whimpers as he hoists her into his arms. Fuck. “Don't you drop me.”

“I would never,” he promises, as he carefully slides off the bed, doing his best not to jostle her too much. Part of her feels pathetically grateful for that. “Bambi, you know I love you, right?”

“Of course I do.” She clings to his arms, struck to the core. “You know I...?”

“Yeah, I know,” Eliot says, sweetly, as they go through the door. Doesn't make her say it. He lowers her slowly into the half-filled tub, where Quentin is waiting. The water stings at first, but that fades, too quickly to be natural. Thank fuck for magic. Quentin brushes her hair back from her face, kisses her temple. It rouses her enough that she thinks to ask, to check in.

“You get what you needed out of that, little Q?” It feels a little forced, put-on, but she refuses to entirely give up her role in the game. She can still do this much, even wrung-out as she is. He smiles at her, touches her cheek, her mouth, lightly presses against a tender place on her breast.

“Yeah,” he says. “Got a lot more than I was expecting, but it was good. We should probably wait a while before we try that spell again, though, maybe double-check the circumstances so you don't get whammied like that a second time.”

“It felt pretty great while it was happening,” she says. “And, um. About the other thing. It's probably better you know, anyway.”

“Don't worry, I won't tell,” he teases, his eyes warm. “Your shameful secret is safe with me. Us.”

“I'm not ashamed,” she corrects, gently. “I'm- it's just- you know. Saying things out loud.”

“It makes them feel more real?”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

There's a sloshing of water behind her, and she feels Eliot press up against her back, naked now. “You want us to get you cleaned up?” he asks, soft. She nods. She'll put her armor back on tomorrow. Right now, she relaxes. Lets her boys take care of her. Just this once.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] (your love was) sticky like honey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21153653) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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